I don't think about my childhood often. Growing up wasn't a spectacular time for me, something I assume is common for a lot more people than I could ever count. I was the weird kid in the neighborhood who mainly stayed indoors and minded to himself due to what I now realize was a long list of depression and anxiety issues.
My family was religious. They still are, really, but what they were before is totally different. My parents described their belief as non-denominational Christianity, but what they showed me when I was a child was something much more outwardly malicious and oppressive.
I wasn't allowed to watch regular kids shows, only those really old, low-budget Christian animated programs for kids (I'm sure you've seen them around online) and a handful of old Disney movies. I wasn't allowed to listen to any of the music my friends were listening too, only "praise & worship" and devotional stuff. Video games were also obviously out of the question, especially when they contained controversial material like violence, nudity, or even magic (witchcraft as they called it - I know, crazy). I was also homeschooled. And being this twisted in such disciplinary doctrine, whenever I slipped up, you'd better believe my parents were big fans of the Belt.
As a result, not only was I cut off from the other kids in my neighborhood, but cut off from the world in general. It felt comparable to prison, not only physically, but emotionally, psychologically. It took up until my mid-teenage years before I was granted a little more personal freedom, but even then I had limits. I still couldn't go far from home and my friends were screened and selected by Mom and Dad.
It's really weird when your parents are that elitist with your life while you yourself feel so subhuman. I hope that makes sense.
Anyway, I'm really going off on a tangent here. I need to focus.
Every word is important now, so I'll try to center myself and tell you what I need to tell you.
I don't like to think back on my childhood, there's not even much to remember aside from all the grief and torment I've shared already. But there was one day that stands out, even now after all this time, that I'll never forget. The day I can't afford to forget.
The day I met the angel.
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January 15, 2004 - I was eight years old. It was pleasantly chilly outside, something that I always cherished as rare in the middle of Florida. My parents were both at work, and my babysitter was watching over myself and my three younger sisters. Aunt Tammy was what we called our babysitter. Even though she wasn't related to us, she was a good friend of our mom's, and honestly pretty great in her own right. I remember how we'd look forward to getting to spend time with her on days when Mom and Dad were away.
It was a relatively boring day around the homestead, myself and Aunt Tammy just doing housework together wherever we found the need to do so. I had just finished taking a break and eating my dinosaur chicken nuggets and wavy fries, that wonderful delicacy that Aunt Tammy was known for bringing over for us. With most of the indoor stuff clean and organized, I was asked to run a load of laundry through the wash, to which I agreed.
Our washer and dryer were out in the garage, accessed through a small door in the dining room. The garage itself was large enough to store our old Chevy Suburban, or at least it would if it weren't cluttered with boxes that wouldn't fit in the attic. It was still easy enough to move around as needed though, with one snag - it was fairly dark.
